Sour Times
by Creepy Lady
Summary: nobody loves me, it's true. no, not like you...
1. crush

so what was there between us had disappeared in a way. it seemed beyond explanation - or comprehension. I knew what had called from within - what had pulled at me in that - joilt - that woke me in the night.  
  
alone and cold.  
  
covered in sweat - I was breathing heavily as I wondered into an awakened state.  
  
I knew it was you...  
  
it had always been you.   
  
you that filled the hours. the empty space in my mind. such condesation was between words said so long ago - that still hung in my mind without even a voice, lack any meaning at all.  
  
it was your eyes.   
  
they closed - and stayed shut, as I screamed your name.  
  
do you know what i'm feeling at all? do you understand the destitude of this? do you understand my broken state?  
  
baby, if i'm hurt then you're to blame.  
  
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it was early that morning that I awoke. I always felt sick to my stomach so early. the sun rising made me feel as though I must purge the day that had passed and fill myself with something better. something new - something pure.  
  
though anything pure was unfound. purity - just a lack of prominant evil. anything could be called pure, so long as you lacked the vision to recognize its decay.  
  
it is the naive that love. it is the naive that wake up to a new day and think just because the sun rises once more that yesterday's problems melt away and today we'll understand once more what forgotten happiness was.  
  
I know sometimes I wake up sore - and dead tired sitll after 12 hours of sleep. my neck has a crink in it and my head aches. i'm alittle sick I think. and some sort of self influenced disease hold me ill.  
  
none the less I could say that the day seemed to hold an optimistic character to it - beyond my ill state.  
  
-though I fall fast-  
  
what I couldn't understand was a gentle breeze that passed over me - and...  
  
and I understand quite literally why you don't want me anymore.  
  
i'm thinking and obsessing and I can't seem to think at all.  
  
will you always hold my soul in some kind of unseen bondage? are you my illness? my disease?  
  
I remember once - what seems eons ago. I held a doll. just a doll. a plain and simple aptitude. just an effigy - we called our daughter. you leant over and kissed it lightly on the head, a genlte wipe of lips on fabric. I remember now, wishing it had been skin to skin...  
  
it seems odd now I guess tht\at I should think back to such trivial moments shared.  
  
is that all I have?  
  
trivial moments?  
  
times I could recall, touch me like recognition.  
  
my pillows and linens all smell like you. doused in your old cologne. you had once given me a bit that I held in a box. I needed more  
  
-then that alone.  
  
no - at some point I always tell myself that I must wake up and crawl out of bed at some point. I tell yself that lying here will do me no good. but then again, what will gettng up do for me at all?  
  
am I torn between a life without compassion of living - or a gentle descent into my own demise?  
  
even then - I wish you'd fuck me just once more before I die. 


	2. to love you

a/n - exerpts from "the bluest eye" by toni morrison.

It wasn't always like this with him. I didn't always feel so cold when he was around. Like how at some points I can look in his direction and feel that I don't even know the person that he is anymore. I'm not exactly unhappy, but it's not what I imagined. When you give your life to someone, it's supposed to be something shared and relished in. I don't see him for days sometimes. And if it's me I don't know, I lack the innoncence that I held to tell me that I was waiting for something more. And it's hard to think that and know it's soemthing that you will never get from the person that you are with.

Before, when we weren't so far apart, he'd come home late and slowly crawl into the bed, inching his way under the covers. He would lay flat on his back for a moment, arms crossed above his head, and I would feel the brush of his leg against mine, and the heat of his arms against my back. I could feel the ridges of his muscles as though I were tracing them with my finger tips, and I desperately wanted to be embraced by them, though I did not move, still in mock sleep. He turned over, tossing his arm over my side and rubbing my stomach, and I still pretended to be asleep, not wanting him stop. For a moment I wanted us to be just like this, just this, without any complications. And so we were. Then I didn't want him rubbing my stomach anymore, just me. I pretended to wake, and slowly turned towards him. I didn't have to open my legs for him, he did it for me. And from then on I became soft, softer then I had ever been before, and all my strength turned in his hands. All my will became curled like wilted leaves as my mind wandered and fell away from me. His head is below my chin, licking my chest, and I can smell the stail liquer on his breathe. He's rubbing my body with an urgancy that arouses me, nipping at my tit, I don't want his hand between my legs anymore, as I spread open enough for him to mount me, too heavy to hold but to light not to. I cross my legs over his back so that he couldn't get away even if he wanted to. All I want is for something to hold onto, and it's like he's in my head as he reaches for my hands and holds them down to the bed, stretched out like on a cross. The bed springs remind of the crickets I used to hear outside my bedroon as a child, in, in. He grasps my hands tight as I hold onto him, because it's the only thing I can do. I know that he wants me to come first, but I can't, not until he does. Not until I feel him loving me. Just me. Sinking into me. Not until I know that my flesh is all that is on his mind. That he couldn't stop if he wanted to. That he would rather die then take his dick out of me. Of me. Not until he has let go of everything he has, and has given it to me. To me. To me. And when he does, I feel power. I feel strong, I feel pretty, I feel young. And then I wait as he shivers and tosses his head to the side. And now I am strong enough, pretty enough, young enough to come for him. And I take fingers out of his hands, putting them on his behind, taking him in. My legs drop back to the bed, and slowly I begin to feel all the colors, all the emotions I felt that time, I first saw his face. The chills of our first embrace, everthing is like a rainbow and then I'm his, and he is mine. And I almost want to thank him, but I don't know how. And I'd get out of bed to clean myself, but he's still half on me and dosing into a peaceful sleep and there is really no where else that I would rather be at that point.

He used to fill me with every color that you could imagine. Something that I had never had in my life time. And through his into his descent into meloncholy he gave me all that he had left. I wanted to embrace him then, love him more, make him love me. But I didn't know how. I was too young to anticipate what else I could give him besides my unconditional affection. He was to me, the purity in the world, the only thing I wanted to protect, the only thing that made me feel.

And it was more then that. His hope had given me happiness. The comfort that I felt in his arms or in his prescence.

Between us, it used to be a million colors, a kalidiscope of every emotion, life itself was breathing into us. From him to me, he brought me to life like nothing else ever could. He gave me a hope that I was deprived of as a child, and I gave him the comfort of knowing there would always be someone to love him. The fact that maybe he never loved me quite so the way I did him, never occurred to me. And the fact that I was placing my heart between his teeth with every kiss, never seemed to frighten me. Maybe because of my innonence, but I hadn't known what heartbreak was when I was young. And I'd not like to know him now, as he wears the face of my love.

The teasing arguments as we walked through the avenues of this city, how he knew every thought that trickled in my head. How the mention of his name brought a smile to my face, how I knew that the mention of mine did the same to him came too late. Perhaps he did love me, but too late for me to hold it as if it were valuable. I had been broken time and time again in my life. But not like this. Not like how I wanted to cry when he looked in my eyes and told my he loved me. All I wanted was to smack him. He didn't know how little those words were in comparison for what I felt for him. I was young, and broken. And Trunks Breifs, one the richest men in the world, one of the most gorgeous men, someone who I would like to say was kind and sweet - but couldn't - had nothing to offer me. And maybe thats what broke him too. I can't imagine him ever being in that position before in his life. Having to feel himself, as invaluable as he had made me feel so many times before.


End file.
